Drowning Away Sorrows
by Sly-TazZ
Summary: The Blight was finally over and everyone couldn't have been happier. Everyone, except for the royal bastard who was betrayed at the Landsmeet and fled from Ferelden. Rated T for some language.


The bartender's day seemed to drag on until the point that he could only bore through the dragging minutes with growing aggravation. It was his own inn, his own tavern, yet he scrunched his nose in disgust at the smell of stale ale and rank men that was heavily accented in the air. Stretching his uncommonly smooth palms across the counter's surface, he scowled as his fingers stuck to the sticky puddles of spilled booze. Taking his hands back, he turned around and searched for a rag. Once finding the dirty scrap of cloth, he scrubbed down the surface in hopes that maybe, just maybe, he could at least clean up and accomplish something.

The sounds of mugs clashing and obnoxious laughter of men. His hostess was standing next to a table of three men, their cheeks and noses blood red. In a slurred movement, the closest man to her swung around drunkenly, and slapped her rum, nearly knocking himself off of his seat. The hostess grunted in annoyance, and swatted his sloppy straying hands that floated towards her. After a few short words with the men, her glare turned from them to the bartender.

Recognizing the glare perfectly, the bartender turned around and began to pour three more mugs for the gentlemen. After pouring each individual one, he placed it on the counter where the hostess scooped up in her hardened hands. She placed them in front of the gentlemen, and they cheered at her arrival. They scooped the mugs up and clapped them against each other, half of the ale washing over the lips of the mugs and splattered on the table.

Damnit, the bartender growled to himself. Now I'm going to have to clean up that table too. He took up the opportunity to wash down the counter again, scrapping over the sticky surface.

"Hey bartender. I need another." The bartender's hand clenched fiercely over the cloth as he turned around to see the owner of the scruffy voice. As his eyes cast across the long line of stools, he realized that the owner of the voice was none other than one of his usual customers. A tall man shrouded by a traveling hood that hung over his broad shoulders. His face was scruffy like his voice, a short brown beard growing slowly across his chin, dirty blond hair that was once clipped now hanging over the sides of his face and covering his ears. Under a pair of fine eyebrows, burdened golden eyes dimly glowed in the firelight of the tavern.

A few seconds past before the bartender replied. "Coming up." Muttering how he would give himself a few days of vacation, the bartender walked away to pour a mug of ale.

Alistair Therin watched the bartender turn his back to him before dropping his gaze once more on the mug that lay empty in his hands. His head was slightly swishy, and his eyes couldn't quite focus.

He was buzzed. Counting the next mug, it would be his fifth tonight. He came into the bar a couple of hours ago, took his casual spot at the counter, and ordered one after another. Usually it took him at least seven or eight to feel extremely lightheaded. His memory fell short after the ninth; the next thing he would remember is the hard floor of the tavern floor as he woke up the next morning.

Unlike some of the amorous patrons around him, Alistair preferred strictly ale. It was all he ordered, all he swallowed down. What was the point of buying something expensive when the cheap stuff could get you just as drunk. He didn't care about its taste, what color it was or how fancy the bottle it came in. Everything tasted horrible here anyways. The brandished rum tasted like rotten eggs and dirtied lake water (which it probably was).

Silence enveloped the air around him, and he grew sick of it. As the bartender came around and produced his next jug, Alistair prompted a conversation, despite his loosened tongue. His words slurred together with a thin string as he spoke. "Do you know why I drink here, ser?" he asked before tipping the jug against his cracked lips.

The bartender looked annoyed for a moment, but he replied with an even tone. "I suppose like anyone else here. Came here to celebrate your achievements or wallow away your failures," he said.

_Perhaps the second,_ Alistair's buzzed brain thought. "Nope!" he told the bartender, popping the 'p' like it was a balloon. "I drink because I want to get drunk."

"I'm sorry, ser. I thought you were going for something _other_ than the _obvious_," he countered slowly. Alistair noted that he looked far too exhausted for games.

"You see, when I get drunk, I can't remember anything," he began to explain. Setting down the mug, he swayed his hands in a semi circle, before tapping his left temple. "When I'm... _drunk_, I can't think about anything, and I can't focus."

The bartender's eyes narrowed. "Yes, that tends to happen to people when they _drink_. In fact, that happens to _everyone_."

His patience was extraordinary! By then Alistair's listeners would have walked away and left him to ramble on to himself. Alistair nodded, and opened his mouth to explain further. Only he didn't know what else to say, so his mouth hung open as he stared at his listener with confusion. What was he saying? He said something around "exactly", his eyes focusing on the mug in front of him, and didn't watch the bartender slip away from him.

_I drink because I don't want to think about where I was before this,_ he wanted to say. In his current state of mind, he could only say that his memories were _very bad_ before this bar. That they made him _upset_, and they were _bad thoughts_.

They weren't just that when he was sober.

No, when he was sober, they were like acidic. They would gather in the back of his head, they would build and build before they would explode and race across his eyes. First it would be the memories that would make his heart swell unnaturally. The first fleeting thought that blossomed into love, a tiny tingling sensation that went from his fingertips to his entire body.

He would see _her_. The night played over in front of his eyes, every sequence of it recorded exactly the same. She stepped back from him, the tiny trail of saliva still connected where their lips had met. Her hand found his as she tugged him to her, willing him to follow. His lips found hers quickly, his hands pressed against her back. He could feel her heat between the thin layer of clothes that separated their bodies. Her hands tugged at the bottom of his shirt, slipping underneath and gliding over his abdomen.

His greedy hands roamed beneath her shirt, tugging it off and flinging it aside. Her bra was difficult, and he grunted into her neck as he struggled with the tie. She giggled at that, and bended her arm behind her and tugged at the knot. He remembered that especially, because the thought of her being so flexible drove him over the edge. Before the bra dropped to the ground, he lifted her from the ground and pressed him to her. Her fingers ran through his hair while their tongues wrestled, lips caught in a passionate lock…

He could hear, see… Maker, he could still _feel_ her as she lay beneath him, her hot breath as it blew against his neck. How she _tasted_ as his mouth explored her body…

These memories, although hot and rather _welcoming_, never lasted. He would close his eyes only for a brief moment, and then the scene would change. She would no longer be kissing him, but glaring at him. Her night clothes are gone, and her leather armor gleams in the dim light. Around her, she would see their companions and the ones he had grown to love from childhood. And they would be like her; _glaring._

The lush forest floor is replaced with the cold steps of the royal castle. Trees turn to posts, their leaves to balconies. The tent before him would contort out of shape, become the royal throne. As the torches light, Alistair recognizes the faces around him, the people before him. Beside her, Loghain stands proudly, a smile staining his lips. His sword hangs at his side, dripping in blood.

Alistair turns around, feels the handle of the door. The memory of him turning away, it pounds in his head like a drum. He feels betrayal, like a knife burrowed itself deeply into his chest. He needs to see her once more, his mind tells him, in a hope to see something in her expression. Regret, pain, _something_; her silver eyes are turned towards Loghain. She isn't even _looking_ at him as he pushes the door open. A look of sorrow is found in Riordan's face, but her face says _nothing._ Absolutely _**nothing**_.

"I need another," he grunted, pushing aside the empty jug. The copper made sharp clinking noises as he slapped it onto the table. _I'm not drunk enough,_ he told himself. He could still _see _her, still could depict the shadows that dashed across his mind. He took the fresh mug in his hands and took an enormous swig. The ale dripped past his lips, and he sluggishly wiped his chin. _Just a little longer_.

_Alistair could see the anger ripple through her as she loomed over Loghain. The dagger twitched in her hands as he dropped to his knees before her._

"_I underestimated you," he gasped between haggard breaths. He clutched to his side, blood trickling from an open wound. "I thought you were like Cailan: a child wanting to play at war… I was wrong." Struggling to his feet, his voice was silenced from the pain coursing through his body. "There's a strength in you that I have not seen since Maric died. I yield."_

_Her hands were shaking as she raised the dagger that she clenched in her hand. "You will die for your crimes," she hissed. Her voice was acidic, his silver eyes slivers of raw hatred as the dagger hovered over her head. She was going to slash at him from above, make a line from his neck to his chest…_

"_Wait!" Riordan's voice broke the palpable tension in the air with a cold snap. Rage raced through Alistair at the very thought of interruption. His lust for revenge was thick reins that demanded his every being. And Riordan… smiled? What was there to smile about! Alistair thought harshly, perking his eyebrow. "The teyrn is a warrior and general of renown. Let him be of use. Let him go through the Joining."_

_WHAT! Alistair whipped his head towards her to read her features. Her face was distorted with anger and confusion. After what felt like an eternity, she spoke through her pursed lips. "You want him to become a Grey Warden? Why?" Alistair wasn't the only one driven by absolute hate, for every word that left her mouth spewed of fiery rage._

_Straightening his back, Riordan gave the impression of being solemn. "There are three of us in all of Ferelden. And there are… _compelling_ reasons to have as many wardens as possible to deal with the arch demon."_

_His gaze was already trained on the bitch Anora to the right of him to not notice the flicker of understanding in the female Warden's eyes. "The Joining itself is often fatal, is it not? If he survives, you gain a general. If not, you have your revenge. Doesn't that satisfy you?" Anora interrupted, stepping towards the female Warden._

_She was quick to defend her father, but Alistair was having none of it. "Absolutely __**not**__! Riordan, this man abandoned our brothers, then blamed us for the deed! He hunted us down like animals –he tortured you! How can we simply forget __**that**__!" he snapped. Anora glared at him, but he only returned it with a hateful glare of his own. Perhaps when all of this was done, he would squish her underneath his heel like the cockroach she was._

_He expected her to agree with him, for her to say that he deserved to die. Even chanced the idea that she would slash the man's neck without a word, and end his life before everyone as her answer. But what he didn't expect –what he refused to believe, even as she said it, was this: "Riordan has a point… We should put him through the Joining."_

"_What!" he snarled at her. It felt like he had fallen onto broken glass and the shards were digging into his skin. "Joing the Wardens is an __**honor**__, not a __**punishment**__! Name him a Warden and you cheapen us all. I will __**not**__ stand next to him as a brother! I _**won't**_!"_

_Her silver eyes locked onto his, and he could see the fury in her eyes. Perhaps if he wasn't so blinded by his own, he might have seen the plea that was growing in them, as well. "We need all the help we can get, Alistair," she forced through gritted teeth. Her voice wavered slightly, lost the strength it once had only minutes before._

"_Loghain is a traitor. We need him like we need to be stabbed in the back. Or have you forgotten how his being a **great general** didn't help the last time." His anger faltered, and he could feel himself weaken. He shook his head, as if it could hide the visible pain that had overwhelmed his features. "I didn't want to be king," he muttered with remorse. But he had to look at her, had to convince her; he picked up his head and stared into her narrowed eyes. "I still don't. But if that's what it takes to see Loghain get justice… then I'll do it. I'll take the **crown**."_

"_Listen to this! Can you see how disastrous a king he'd be, putting his own selfish desire above the needs of his country? You can't seriously support him," Anora snapped at both the Warden and bastard._

_The Warden was caught, and Alistair could see it. Her mouth opened to protest against Anora's words, but there was only silence. Was she doubting Alistair? Was she really considering Anora over **him**!_

_She did not answer her question, but only muttered two words. Two words that sent Alistair's heart and mind spiraling out of control. "You're right…" Alistair exploded at hearing her say it._

"_You're supporting Anora. You dare! After everything we've struggled to achieve!" He was in her face now, yelling and demanding answers. So close, he could see how small she really was. How pained and confused and worried as he was._

"_I'm trying to do what's best for Ferelden!" she yelled back. It must have been instinct, for she leapt backwards from his dangerous proximity. The dagger that was once directed at Loghain was arced in front of her in defense. She felt threatened._

_His tone softened. "Being a good king is about more than whose smartest or who has the best breeding." He stepped closer to her, and moved his hand towards her. "You told me once that I needed to stand up for myself. Well, here I am. Making me king, not **her**."_

_It was the last expression he would ever see on her beautiful face. It was indescribable, infused with so many different emotions. Her eyebrows were knitted together over her eyes, her lips pulled into a straight line. They gave the impression that she was in spite; that she was disgusted with what was in front of her. But her eyes were entirely different. They were wide with fright, reddened with tears that had not yet come. In the silver pools, he could see the pain, the suffering…_

_Her reply was barely audible, and it took a few moments before realization struck Alistair. A bitter realization that clawed at his heart so horribly he thought he almost collapsed._

"_I can't do that."_

_It took a few moments before realization struck Alistair. A bitter realization that clawed at his heart so horribly he thought he almost collapsed._

_I can't do that._

"_And here I thought… never mind. I guess you've made your decision. Here's my decision, then: I'm no longer a Grey Warden. I'm leaving." He cruelly enjoyed watching as a lone tear trickle from her eye at his statement. Her lip quivered, but she bit it, her wide red eyes locked on his amber ones._

"_I'm afraid it's not so simple as that, Alistair.."_

"_You already got what you wanted! Your murdering father gets a place amongst the Grey Wardens. What else could you want from me?" Would this bitch ever shut the fuck up! Alistair already felt like his world was cracking around him, and she was just making it worse._

"_Your life, unfortunately." His world shattered, and he stood frozen to the spot in horror at her. "So long as you live, rebellions can be rallied in your name. Our land cannot endure another civil war. I must call for your execution –"_

"_No." She attempted to make herself appear strong, but failed as her voice cracked. "You will __**not **__kill him." The Warden was a diplomat once more, her gaze hard and vicious._

"_This is what you ask?" The Warden nodded. "Very well. Alistair, you may leave on condition that you swear before this landsmeet that you renounce all claim to the throne for yourself and all your heirs."_

"_That's what it'll take, huh? Fine. I don't want anything to do with this place or any of you people. __**Ever**__. I swear it. I…" The look that was on her expression was long gone. Now she looked at him with an empty face, her reddened eyes hollow of any emotion. "I guess this is goodbye." He had to gulp down the fire that was building in his throat, for fear he would croak in sorrow._

_She cast her gaze away from him and never looked back. Just bitter words for him to remember as he slammed the doors shut. Words to hear play in his head over and over again as he left Denerium and boarded a ship. A ship to the Free Marches, when he fled from the Blight, left the Grey Wardens, his life, and, worst of all, abandoned the love of his life._

"_If you're leaving, leave."_

So, every night he would cheer to that and drink until his sorrows became a blurry mist and he could forget. Forget about everything that had happened when the Blight attacked Ferelden. Forget the struggles and battles he went through to prepare the army against the Archdemon.

Most of all, forget about **her.**


End file.
